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𝑨𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚, 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒕 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍, 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚.
Antoine's Perspective
Before the game, I am considerably nervous, but no one knows. I'm completely confident of victory to them. Because that's my job.
In the dressing room, the coach hypes us. "Everyone can go," he says when he's finished. I stand up to leave with everyone else, and just as I'm about to leave the room, he says, "Except Griezmann, please."
The few guys that remain in the room glance at me curiously. The ones that have been on our team for a while remember, likely, that it used to be very common, actually, for our coach to hold me back like this before games. He hasn't done that in a while, though. No one has ever asked why Coach has done that, and even if they did, they couldn't expect an honest answer from me.
I stand by the door, next to the door, stress flooding my body, every ounce of me, much like adrenaline fills my body the moment I'm about to score a goal. "Yes?" I ask softly. Surely he hasn't somehow heard about my mistake from last night, right? He couldn't have, unless for some reason Louis or Mama or something called the police. But I didn't commit a crime. And besides, our family has usually been pretty good to sticking to our 'what happens in the house stays in the house' mentality.
"You look nervous, Griezmann. More than you usually do."
"How can you know, but no one else sees it?" I question in annoyance. I'm so good at hiding it. From most people.
"I know you too well, Griezmann."
"It's a big game tonight. My last for three weeks, and we're up against the top in the league, the only team higher than us. How can you expect me not to be nervous?"
He nods, seeming to take this for an answer, which I'm relieved about. "Well, I just wanted to tell you, Griezmann, to give it your all today, okay?"
I swallow, nodding. It has been a while since he has given me the pep talk before games. He only gives me up when he thinks I need it. I do today. How does he always know?
"I want you to leave your home off the pitch. I want you to leave your mama and your father off the pitch, Griezmann. I want you to leave girls off the pitch. I want you to leave guilt and revenge off the pitch. I want you to leave your emotions off the pitch. I want you to leave your reputation, your glory, your friends... Off. The. Pitch. Okay, Griezmann? No friendship problems, no insults, no bullying, no crisis, no anxiety, no crowds no fear of failure, no pressure, no stress, no depression, no self-doubt, no past, no future, no uncertainty, no, no chaos, Griezmann. You know how to play football, and you know how to play good football. So show them you got the kicks, and play like you mean it out, there, Griezmann, but leave that all off the pitch. Okay?"
I nod, biting my lip. "Yes, sir."
"Do you understand?" he says firmer.
"Yes, sir!" I say, standing straighter, holding me head higher.
"The ball, the present, the net, and your teammates. That is what is on the pitch. And that is all that is going to stay on the pitch. Will you do this, Griezmann?"
"Yes, sir!" I say confidently. He's right. The moment I overthink, get worried or distracted, I'm off the pitch. I'm screwed. I mess up and stumble. The pitch is the pitch and what is on the pitch stays on the pitch. What is off the pitch stays off the pitch.
"Good, Griezmann!" he says, slapping my shoulder. "Now get out there and kick a**!"
I grin out to myself as I run out onto the pitch. No more anxious before-game feelings. I'm f***ing ready for this game, man. I'm f***ing ready.
I play hard. As hard as I can, putting all my heart, soul, and mind to it. And I keep all the trash away from the pitch off the pitch. And I working my f***ing a** off out there.
It pays off. I score both of our two goals. Our goalkeeper is amazing. One time, I sprint across the whole pitch, from my forward position, to our goalkeeper, throwing myself on him, hugging him, shouting in his ear, after he made three crucial saves in a row, "Dude, you're carrying us!"
To which he kissed my cheek, saying, "Coming from you!"
Then I heard the coach yelling at me, and I sprinted back to my position, grinning like a mad man. Only football does this to me. Makes me this happy. Only football.
My best friend assists me, and I kick the ball in, which is my first goal. My second one is a header. My friend kicks a corner, and I jump up, hitting it in my with head, falling to the ground, laughing my head off when my friends pull me up, pointing at the goal, making me realise I actually scored a goal.
I feel unstoppable.
I run off the pitch at the end of the game. I blow a kiss and a wink to pretty Brooke cheering on the sidelines. Because I feel wonderful. I feel like the best. Again. It's awesome. I missed this feeling in these days, and I think I needed it back. Because I am the f***ing best. The f*** my f***ing family think they're talking about? They are fricking messed up. Why would I believe anything they'd say about me?
I am literally the best, and this theory is all the more proven in the locker room after the game when all my guys throw me up in the row, chanting our school anthem, but replacing our school name with 'Antoine Griezmann'. They're praising me, and it's because I deserve it. I'm so happy, I can't stop laughing, and I'm sure my face is scarlet red from all the laughing.
I consider our goalkeeper as they put us down, who really was the one who made about seven saves on target. But I can't possible take this glory from myself.
I mean, it would be a clean sheet if it weren't for me. We wouldn't have taken first in the league if it weren't for me scoring those two, but I did, making it a win for us, 0-2.
